


Air Cool With Damage

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Magic Made Them Do It, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: The spell is almost instant, but that fraction of a moment is enough to change everything – right as the spell hits Geralt, Ciri teleports to a spot between Geralt and the witch. And the first person Geralt lays eyes on with the curse fully settled is Ciri.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 153
Collections: Rare Pairs Exchange 2020





	Air Cool With Damage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



The witch has one last trick up her sleeve. Geralt doesn’t expect it, too focused on the fire magic, on the fire elementals she’s been setting on unlucky travelers to expect this. He doesn’t manage to dodge the spell, gets hit right in the chest and immediately feels the magic take root in him, settling in his blood. The spell is almost instant, but that fraction of a moment is enough to change everything – right as the spell hits Geralt, Ciri teleports to a spot between Geralt and the witch. And the first person Geralt lays eyes on with the curse fully settled is Ciri. 

Ciri stabs her sword right through the witch’s chest. Her stance, the force behind the blow and even the way she pulls the sword out smoothly are all perfect. 

The fight is finally over and they’ve won. All should be well. But. The curse – the witch must have meant it as a means to stop Geralt from killing her, or perhaps she knew he would do it anyway and meant it as a final ‘fuck you’. It crawls through Geralt’s skin, his blood and nerves. He stands, still frozen with an uncomfortable amount of very conflicting emotions, and watches Ciri clean the blood off her sword. 

She looks perfect. She always does, but Geralt has never considered it as a man, someone who isn’t her father would. Her pleased smile is radiant. Every plane and curve of her body is pleasing, and only made better by the armor she wears. 

Geralt wants to reach out and touch her, run his fingers through her hair. It wouldn’t be a strange thing to do surely – he has done so before, even if such casual tenderness does not come to him easily around other people, only Ciri. But he’s very sure he has never done so while the thought of touching her makes his trousers grow tighter. 

Fuck, the curse has definitely settled, and it has definitely anchored itself to Ciri and not the dead witch. This doesn’t change much in how Geralt will deal with it, because there’s about as much chance of him betraying Ciri in such a way, as there is of the witch coming back to life to help him lift the curse. 

He would really appreciate dying while not lusting for his own daughter, though. Damn that ploughing witch and her curse. 

“Geralt?” Ciri sounds curious at his stillness, but not yet concerned, so Geralt knows she didn’t recognize the curse. “Are you well?” She comes closer and reaches for him, lays her hand on his chest. Geralt wants to pull her even closer so strongly that it feels like a wave of vertigo. He also wants to brush her hand away and take three steps back, but that would indeed be strange of him and would definitely make her worry. 

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, and forces himself to step back. “Good job,” he also says, and nods at the body on the ground. Good timing is what he would have said, but now it feels like it would have more meaning than it should. He doesn’t know if his own expression would betray him or not if he said it out loud. He goes to inspect the far side of the room to give himself a reason to look away from Ciri. 

Ciri huffs and follows him. “I do believe I know more about magic than you do, let me make sure she didn’t do anything too–” 

“I’m fine, Ciri,” he cuts her off, probably more gruffly than he should, but Ciri only makes another exasperated sound and mutters ‘ _Fine’_ under her breath. Geralt on the other hand silently curses himself with all the words he can think of in any language he knows. He can’t let her figure out something is wrong, as she will not be deterred from finding out what he got hit with exactly, if she suspects he’s in any kind of danger. And when she figures it out, she will… Geralt knows she won’t let him die, if the cure is something within her power to give. And he cannot do that to her, cannot take that from her. 

By the time they make sure nothing too dangerous, like a ready made elemental summoning ritual is left lying around, Geralt feels sweat beading along his hairline, at the back of his neck, a drop slowly rolling down along his spine. 

He does his very best to not look at Ciri on their way back to their employer, but that only makes him feel worse, slightly ill in his bones. When he starts swaying in the saddle, he stops that futile attempt at resisting and looks. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could ever look _away_ from her. From her thighs and hips where she moves up and down with the easy trot of her horse. From her laughter when she challenges Geralt to a race, and from the white streaks of her hair as she pushes her horse into a canter and shoots ahead. 

By the time they get back to the nearest village and collect their pay, Geralt feels feverish. The inn isn’t too crowded on account of many of the travelers that would have been staying here having been incinerated by a raging fire elemental, so they get their rooms cheap. It’s late enough that Geralt can decline a celebratory ale and go straight to his room, even if Ciri looks at him weirdly when he says he’s not in the mood. 

Inside the room Geralt collapses against the door, slides down to the floor and gasps for air. He can’t get enough of it no matter how much he tries. 

The first thing he does when he drags himself back up is bolt the door shut with the unconvincing but probably serviceable lock. The second is taking off his armor and then his clothes until he’s left bare-chested. He hesitates for a moment and then opens the front of his trousers as well, but leaves them on. The humid air of the inn doesn’t do much to cool him off, but it’s better than nothing. 

He could go further. Take the edge off. It wouldn’t take long, not after watching Ciri as much as he has today. He can see her when he closes his eyes, the way she swayed up and down when riding, and he can twist the image easily in his mind, change it into another kind of riding. 

Damn it. Geralt shakes himself, takes his hands away from his trousers. He can’t make himself do them back up, but he leaves them on. Nothing he does now will take the edge off, he knows that. He could rub himself raw, or buy company for the night and fuck or be fucked until he passed out from exhaustion and the curse wouldn’t budge. 

After that Geralt pulls ingredient after ingredient out of his saddlebags and arranges them on the floor. It takes him the better part of an hour to brew a magic dampening potion. It’s not intended for this kind of love at first sight curse, but nothing really is. The best he can hope for is that it will give him more time. By the time he’s done, his hands are shaking and sweat is rolling down his chest, leaving tiny trails. 

Geralt is about to down the potion and see what happens, when the air in the middle of the room shimmers and Ciri appears in his room, almost as wild as in that witch’s lab, and equally as glorious. 

“Okay, this is silly–” 

Ciri stops mid sentence when she notices the state of Geralt. Her eyes trail over his body, the fever sweat on his skin, the way his hands shake and his trousers are loosened, no longer doing anything to hide his by now persistent hardness. Finally her eyes stop on the potion in his hands. 

“Geralt? What is– something is wrong, I can see that plainly. Tell me what’s going on.” It’s an order, but Geralt can’t tell her, no matter how tempting asking for her help seems in this state. 

She takes two steps closer and once again lays a hand on his chest, slower this time. There’s a redness lingering across her cheekbones and Geralt can’t look away. Would she blush as beautifully when he– 

“Oh,” Ciri says with a shocked expression, but then her eyes narrow. Shit, too late, Geralt got too distracted. “Who–?” Ciri doesn’t finish the sentence. Geralt can almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, spinning too fast for him to do anything but watch helplessly as she figures out the answer to that too. 

Then she huffs. Geralt stares at her and he can’t quite make himself think. And before he can object, explain why she should leave him, Ciri’s hands fly to her blouse and she deftly unbuttons it. 

“Ciri, no, you don’t have to...” he can’t even say it for the fear of making this real. 

“Yes, I do. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away.” 

Ciri doesn’t seem to care for his attempts to spare her this price. A part of him rejoices at Ciri giving herself to him without question. Geralt wants to burn out that part, smother it. He hates that he can’t tell if that’s the curse, or if he’s truly that wrong, that despicable. 

It has to be the curse. It must be, except he can’t _tell_ – he looks at Ciri and he wants her, finds her beautiful in the worst way, the wrong way. 

When her blouse is off, she continues on to the rest of her clothes and very soon she’s standing before him naked. Geralt was very mistaken when he thought the armor made her more lovely – her body is more captivating than anything he’s ever seen in his life. It’s also everything he should never want, and he curses himself even as he can’t take his eyes off her. 

Ciri leans in and reaches up surely, with no hesitation even if the blush on her face belies her confidence. The first kiss is just a brush of her lips against Geralt’s, a test. Then she presses closer, kisses more firmly and Geralt’s already shaky self control breaks and he kisses back like he’s been starving for days, weeks, a lifetime. 

When he pulls her closer, flush against him, Ciri doesn’t shy away. Instead she pulls him even closer and then brings her weight back and topples them both into the bed. 

Geralt knows he shouldn’t, that nothing at all will be well in the morning when the curse is broken, but she kisses him so sweetly that he forgets a little. She pushes him over and pulls down his remaining clothes and he forgets a little more. She lays herself against him, her soft chest pressed against his scarred skin, her thighs spread wide to fit his in between, her hips rocking softly, tentatively as if she’s unsure of how this goes, as if she’s never… Geralt forgets every thought he’s ever had. 

He tries to be gentle, to stop himself from gripping her too hard and leaving bruises, and he mostly succeeds, or he thinks he does. He tries to be slow as well and not push inside her too soon, too fast, but he must get that wrong. Ciri makes a surprised, wounded sound and her nails dig into Geralt’s shoulders. 

Geralt should stop, would stop, but he can’t. He feels only half in control of his own body, the curse holding the reins as much if not more than he does, now that Geralt has yielded to the magic. 

With a badly muffled groan he moves, thrusts, feels Ciri’s thighs tremble, swallows her gasp. And all the while his blood roars in his ears with the thought that _he’s the first_. It makes everything better and so much worse. 

He tries to make it good for her. It might be better if he didn’t, but he can’t resist that part of him that wants her to like this, to make sure everyone else will always fall short of this, of Geralt in her memory. So he reaches between them and presses his fingers where he knows she’ll like it, and then by the sound of her sighs sighs and moans and by the tensing of her legs learns how she best likes that touch. And he keeps at it until her thighs tremble from pleasure and not pain. 

The look on her face – eyes closed and the faint lines between her eyebrows, and bliss – that look is his punishment. He will never look at Ciri without remembering how she looks when she comes on his cock and his fingers. And he’ll never be able to forget how much he likes it, how fast it drives him to finish. Every part of his body feels like it’s overflowing with satisfaction. 

It’s not a feeling that should last, not when he can feel the curse dissipate right after. Guiltily he tries to stretch it longer, just a few moments. Ciri doesn’t push him away immediately, so he pretends the haze lasts, that he’s still senseless from it, and holds her in his arms for as long as he can. 

He manages a minute at least, maybe two, before Ciri stirs. Geralt lets her go then and rolls to the side. 

They lie side by side, the night air slowly cooling their uncovered skin. Ciri doesn’t get up and leave. Maybe Geralt should, but it’s his room, and she doesn’t ask him to, so he stays as well. There isn’t anything he can say that would undo the damage he’s done. He tries to find the words, even knowing there aren’t any, but his eyes keep straying to Ciri’s nude form next to him. He curses himself, looks away, and then a moment later his eyes turn to her again. 

He spends so long fighting himself, trying to think of something to say to break the silence that Ciri falls asleep. Her breaths even out and slow. It startles Geralt, though it shouldn’t after the day they’ve had. For a minute he watches the slow rise and fall of her chest. 

It feels like another sin – sleeping at her side after what he’s already done to her. But it’s the last one Geralt will commit. He knows she’ll be gone very soon. Before today he was dreading the day she would leave him to walk her own Path, alone as a Witcher, but at least he knew he would find her again soon. Now it feels like he’s lost the right to look for her and that maybe she won’t look for him either. 

It feels like dying would have been the better choice, and even as he thinks it, Geralt’s eyes once again linger on her. The curse is gone, so he only has himself to blame. 

Geralt covers them both with a sheet and closes his eyes, and tries to think of nothing. 

Morning comes far too soon. The first thing Geralt notices, before he even opens his eyes, is that Ciri is still there. By his side, in the same bed they fucked last night. 

It’s difficult to miss as her head is pillowed on his shoulder and she’s running her fingers over the rough bristles on his jaw. Her still very naked body is pressed to his side from his knee all the way up to his chest. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away,” Ciri says, when Geralt looks at her carefully. Geralt isn’t sure what to say to that. 

“You weren’t going to tell me at all, were you? Geralt, you could have died.” 

“I wasn’t going to make you...” Geralt doesn’t finish the sentence. He did make her. 

Ciri scoffs, and it’s deserved, but then she says, “You didn’t _make_ me.” 

Geralt tries to argue. He draws his breath, opens his mouth, words arranged into a neat line of guilt. He’s been practicing them half the night, when he should have been searching for the right apology instead. Guilt at least he understands very well. Before he can offer it up to Ciri as a subpar sacrifice, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. 

All his words scramble into a mess. He kisses back when she fits her mouth more firmly to his. Geralt is suddenly impossibly aware of every single point where they’re touching. It’s a lot of points, and then it becomes a lot more when Ciri breaks the kiss and straddles him. 

“Would you feel better about it, if _I_ made _you_? Would that make us even, do you think?” She asks it like a joke, like she’s not bothered by it. She’s astride him, smiling at him like this is what she wants. Like she wants _him_. 

Geralt should lie, but he has never wanted anything more than he wants to have her again. If he lied, Ciri would surely see it on his face anyway. So he doesn’t lie. He pulls her down into another kiss, and that’s not quite her making him, but it makes him feel better anyway. 


End file.
